Chapter 12
Maksim
I head to the bedroom early.
I shouldn't. I have a ton of work waiting on my desk. Yelena sent the report on Yegorov's routine, and it needs my full attention. But here I am, heading to the bedroom anyway.
The argument from earlier has been echoing in my head all afternoon.
Not the part about teaching. The clash over security and my name—she thought that was a favor. That was just negotiation. What really stuck was the beginning.
“I wait for you to come back, sleep beside me, and not say a word. A week of absolute boredom, Maksim. I wasn't made for this.”
Boredom.
Loneliness.
She barged into my office to complain about feeling lonely in this enormous house. My office, where no one dares set foot without permission. And the worst part? Instead of being irritated, instead of wanting to kill her, I liked the audacity—the way she marched in as if the house were hers.
But it is hers.
And yet she's unhappy, and it's been stuck in my throat all day. I shouldn't feel this way. I don't care about other people's comfort. Worse than that—I need to keep my distance. I told her, in so many words, that I know the limit, how far I can go without losing myself.
But here I am, crossing that line. Opening the bedroom door before ten.
The overhead light is off, but the lamps on each nightstand are on, casting the room in dim light. The door to the closet and bathroom is closed, and I can hear water running inside. She's in the shower.
It didn't occur to me that arriving so much earlier than usual would mean running into Anya in the middle of a nighttime routine I've been avoiding like my life depends on it. It's too intimate. But it's too late to back out, and I'm not that kind of man. So I stay.
I take off my jacket, toss it on the armchair, kick off my shoes, and leave my socks on.
I grab the book that's been sitting forgotten on the nightstand since I got married.
Reading used to be what I did during sleepless nights, but it's been a week since I've needed to.
I lean against the headboard, still on top of the comforter, still in my work clothes, and tell myself I came here to read.
I can't make sense of a single sentence until the shower stops. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens, and Anya steps into the bedroom wearing a robe.
Just a robe.
Her hair is loose and damp from the shower, cascading in brown waves over shoulders covered by soft fabric.
It's the first time I've seen her like this, without the discipline of a bun or ponytail.
Anya with her hair down looks younger, gentler, less guarded.
The robe is dark, falling to just below her knees, held closed by nothing but a loose knot.
The moment she sees me, she freezes.
“What are you doing here?”
Her voice comes out higher than usual, full of surprise and even confusion. I like knowing I caught her off guard.
“It's my room,” I say, dropping my gaze to the book I'm not reading.
“You never come this early.”
“Today I did.”
I shrug, and she lingers there, standing in the bathroom doorway like she's been cornered by a predator.
I wouldn't mind devouring her whole.
It's written all over her face and in her posture—she probably wants to go back inside and put on real pajamas. But she doesn't run and hide like anyone else would. My wife isn't like anyone else. She said so herself, and I already knew it. Anya would rather die than let on that I unsettle her.
I like that. A lot.
Anya doesn't back down. Instead, she lifts her chin and walks calmly to her side of the bed. Halfway there, she adjusts the robe's belt, tightening the knot, then sits on the bed like me—on top of the comforter.
She acts like I'm not even there. She picks up her own book, a police thriller, and opens it to the marked page, ignoring me completely.
I like her stubbornness too much—this petulance, the raised chin, the way she refuses to run. More than I should.
I also find myself imagining what's under the robe. When she sat down, the hem slipped up her smooth leg, riding higher than my sanity can handle.
There's a scar there, on her right knee.
Thin and long, just a white line. The surgeon who operated on her did excellent work.
I imagine it's from the accident that ended her career.
The accident she still relives when no one's watching.
Anya let slip, while arguing with me in the office, how a black sedan took everything that mattered to her.
I wonder if whoever was responsible paid for it. Maybe I'll look into it.
I don't look too long—I don't want to make her uncomfortable—but I admit that looking away and returning to my uninteresting book is harder than I expected. A few minutes pass, and I stay there, stupidly aware of her every breath, every sigh and huff.
The situation is ridiculous. Two married adults sitting on opposite sides of an enormous bed, pretending to read so they don't have to interact.
“I didn't even know you liked to read.” She mutters, almost too quietly for me to hear.
“What?” I ask, just to make sure she was talking to me.
“I didn't know you liked to read in bed.” She responds, louder this time, her voice firmer.
“It helps pass the time when I have insomnia.”
“Hmm.”
She shifts in place, craning her neck as if trying to see the title of my book, and I let her. Then a sound I've never heard from her lips catches me completely off guard.
She's laughing.
“What?” I ask, savoring the sound of her laughter and the rosy flush of her cheeks.
“The book is upside down, Maksim.”
I check to see if she's serious. She is.
I've been holding a book upside down like an idiot for several minutes.
I feel thrown off, and it's a strange sensation for me.
For so many years I've controlled everything, never stepping out of line, always so rigid and methodical, that I'd forgotten what this feels like.
“That's why I couldn't understand anything.”
“What did you come in here for, Maksim?”
Svetlana asks, her voice dropping, as she sets her own book aside and turns her attention to me. She's not afraid to question me, to push for the answers she wants.
I could lie. I could claim I was distracted by work. Instead, I turn the book right side up with all the calm in the world, taking my time, and say:
“My wife complained today.” I close the book. Set it on the nightstand. Turn toward her, staring into her green eyes. “Said she's been lonely, bored. Neglected by her husband.”
“I didn't say neglected.” She tries to defend herself.
“You said it in other words.” I hold her gaze, challenging her to argue back. She doesn't. “And I'm not a man who lets his wife complain twice.”
I watch her throat move as she swallows hard. Her breathing falters for an instant, but Anya doesn't move. She stays there, caught between pride and what her body craves. So am I. But I send my pride to hell first.
I raise my hand and catch the lock of hair that's fallen over her face. It's soft, silky, and smells like red berries. I think that's where the sweet scent came from—the one I've noticed every night lying beside her. I tuck the strand behind her ear, lingering longer than I should.
“You should wear your hair down more often.” My voice comes out low and hoarse now that I'm closer to her.
“It gets in the way when I dance,” she responds just as quietly, almost whispering.
“You don't dance all the time.”
I drag my fingertips across her skin, tracing a path from her ear down her neck. Svetlana shivers and gasps. The sound hits me like an electric jolt, making my cock pulse and swell. I've been getting hard since I saw her come out of the bathroom in that robe—now there's no hiding it.
“Not anymore.” Despite the whisper, I catch the pang of sadness in her voice.
“Do you miss it?”
“Every day.”
I wrap my open hand around her slender neck, feeling her racing pulse beneath my fingertips as I lightly caress the hollow of her throat. My movements are slow, giving her time to stop me, but she doesn't.
My fingers travel higher, exploring her skin until they reach the nape of her neck.
Anya trembles slightly, a shiver running across her skin from her neck to her arm.
I lower my head to finally taste her skin, kissing first that delicate curve where neck meets shoulder.
I hear her inhale deeply and feel the fabric beneath us pull taut.
Then I realize she's gripping the comforter hard.
I drag my teeth and stubble across her skin, along the same path my fingers traced before, half-expecting her to push me away and start cursing at me. But she doesn't.
No.
My wife sighs once more.
“What are you doing to me, Solnyshko[14]?”
Her hand releases the comforter and slides up to my nape, her fingers burying themselves in my hair. Instead of pushing me away, she pulls me closer, pressing my mouth harder against her neck, and the gesture runs through me like a current.
She wants me as much as I want her.
The pride we've both always carried—the shield we spent the entire week hiding behind—has dissolved. Now only raw desire remains.
I nibble her ear while my hand travels down her robe-covered arm to her shoulder, where I push the fabric aside, exposing her collarbone. I trail kisses downward, worshipping Anya's sighs and the way her body arches toward me, asking without words.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, my hand reaching the knot of her belt, already loosening under my fingers.
“No.”
The word comes out wrapped in a moan against my ear, tearing away the last thread of sanity I had left. The knot gives way, and the robe falls open. I don't lift my head to look at her yet—the moans she makes when I bite this spot on her neck are too good to stop now.